BUBBLES

Sat here, I dream, in the half dark
Of you, blowing bubbles all day,
On that hill, inside Greenwich Park,
You blew all our troubles away.

See our children, they come running,
Try to catch all those rainbow globes,
Swirling before bursting, stunning
As earings that hung from your lobes.

Red ball above onion rises,
The tide turns below Bugsby’s Reach,
You’d not know there was a crisis,
Upon that far flung Cuban beach.

The Sun reflects pale orange pink,
On last dreg bubbles up quite high,
Silently drift towards the drink,
Then, float away, broke bubble I.

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, 2nd December 2017.

MILLIONS OF BRAZILIANS

Millions of Brazilians
Have witnessed all these scenes before
Paliamentary pantomime
Has locked down everybody’s doors
The army ringed now around London
Stock markets fall down through the floor
There’s no knowing where this leads us
The MPs bluster on, so sure
Their nationalistic reactions
Echoed loudly on radio four
Butterfly show goes on and on
No dreamliners fly anymore
We are told it’s for our own good
For the aged, for the poor
Evoke the spirit of the blitz
Best wishes from second world war
Spout about spiritual health
Whilst televising martial law
Soon round up any dissidents
Is that what this is really for?

Harri Rogers, in the red bedroom, Pencnwau, 19th March 2020

SEARCHING FOR A HANG

ON THE STREET WITH THE TRAMWAY FROM TAKSIM SQUARE

IT SEEMS THERE ARE MUSICIANS BUSKING EVERYWHERE

HALFWAY ALONG THE RAILS NEAR THE ADA BOOKSHOP BAR

FIFTEEN TURKISH FOLK SINGERS SING SONGS FROM ANKARA

THE SWEETEST SONG THAT NIGHT CAME NOT FROM ANY TONGUE

BUT FROM THE DULCET FINGERS OF SOME HIPPY WITH HIS HANG

ON A CARPET COVERED CUSHION OF YELLOW BLUE AND GREEN

THE HANG RESTED ON HIS KNEES LIKE AN UPTURNED SOUP TUREEN

A CROWD OF PEOPLE GATHERED AS HE WOVE HIS RHYTHMIC SPELL

EACH CAREFULLY CHOSEN NOTE CLEARER THAN A CHRYSTAL BELL

FAR FAR SWEETER SOUNDING THAN ANY BELL THAT EVER RANG

NOW EVER SINCE THAT NIGHT I’VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR A HANG

Copyright Harry Rogers – 17th October 2012 – Istanbul

Below Topkapi Palace Walls – the chilly dogz

This is The Chilly Dogz version of my poem Below Topkapi Palace Walls written during my holiday in Istanbul in October 2012.

BELOW TOPKAPI PALACE WALLS

The horse chestnuts are dropping conkers

Outside Topkapl Palace walls

Beautiful wooden houses

Frequented by queens

In the evening gently smoking

To Blue Mosque prayer calls

Across the way yet another ruined shack

With an Istanbul stray cat

Sit sitting from a small glass

One more Hot Apple Tea

Staring out from beneath the rim

Of that old battered tennis hat

It’s hart to believe that we’re all

So close to war in the 21sy century

They say this is the place

Where East and West collide

But wherever you come from

This just might be the perfect place to hide

Whilst waiting for the start of

A nuclear Winter bomb as it falls

Find me smoking apple aniseed hubble bubble

Outside Topkapi Palace walls

Yeah

Find me smoking apple aniseed hubble bubble

Outside Topkapi Palace walls

Copyright Harry Rogers – 18th October 2012

Jaki The Ladette

I wrote this initially as play on words around the the term Jack The Lad.  However, as I was writing it this story of damaged young women emerged into view.  I wasn’t going to write anything about that horrible person Savile but this just came out.  I then took it into a new app available on Google Chrome called Ujam to  see what it would sound like as a song.  Click the link below to hear the result, not perfect I know but something I can take to the band for us to play around with.

https://www.ujam.com/songs/hHSdXQkW6b6j

JAKI THE LADETTE

Here comes Jaki the ladette

With the ladders in her tights

She’s been out speeding

For one too many nights

 

In a mirror through the smoke

Her mascara’s gone streaky

But she don’t see the joke

Staring back so freaky

 

Tries to roll a cigarette

Can’t see what she’s making

Drops skins down the loo

Hands won’t stop shaking

 

Ooh Jaki Jaki Jaki

Jaki the ladette

Ooh Jaki Jaki Jaki

Jaki the ladette

 

Wobbling on stilettos

She staggers to the bar

Empties coins on the counter

Can’t tell what they are

 

Orders a vodka and red bull

She’s teetering on the edge

Her hair looks just like it’s

Been dragged through a hedge

 

But here is the strange thing

No matter how stoned she gets

She can’t stop remembering

Like an elephant never forgets

 

How that creepy disc jockey

The one with the monster cigar

Raped her in her fifteenth summer

In the back of his Rolls Royce car

 

Ooh Jaki Jaki Jaki

Jaki the ladette

Ooh Jaki Jaki Jaki

Jaki the ladette

 

Copyright: Harry Rogers 30/10/2012

THE GIRL IN THE GARNET COLOURED DRESS

I wrote this after thinking about children dying by accident in Palestine.  Marc Gordon and I recorded the video very quickly in his monthly guitar shop in Cardigan in our usual let’s bang it down straight away manner.  We are having fun doing these Tuesday session videos and it looks like we will get out and about for more in the coming months as I am retiring from wage slavery next weekend.

THE GIRL IN THE GARNET COLOURED DRESS

SUCH A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL

IN HER GARNET COLOURED DRESS

THE PERFECT IMAGE OF SERENITY

CARRYING A PILE OF TABOON BREAD

 

FROM HER GRANDMOTHERS OVEN

GOLD COINS GLINTING ON HER CAP

SMILING AT LEMONS IN THE SUNSHINE

WITH ASSURED STILNESS OF HER HEAD

 

STOPPING BEFORE CROSSING THE ROAD

SHE CRUMPLES TO THE DUSTY GROUND

ANOTHER COLLATERAL OBSCENITY

AN ISRAELI RICOCHET LEAVES HER DEAD

 

ARE WE CRYING YET?

 

ARE WE CRYING YET?

 

ARE WE CRYING YET?

 

ARE WE?

 

Harry Rogers: Sunday 16th September 2012

An All American Boy

I finished writing this song lyric on 28th February and a week later this happened… http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-17330205 .

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

THEY POSTED HIM OUT TO AFGHANISTAN

HIS DAD HOPED IT WOULD MAKE OF HIM A MAN

LIKE IT HAD FOR HIM OUT IN VIETNAM

RISKING LIFE AND LIMB FOR UNCLE SAM

HIS GIRLFRIEND AND HIS MUM WERE REALLY SCARED

EVERYBODY SEEMED AS IF THEY CARED

 

HE WAS

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

 

HE SPENT MANY WEEKS FIGHTING WITH THE TALIBAN

GOT A NEW TATTOO THOUGHT IT PROVED HE WAS A MAN

GREW A BEARD THAT MADE HIM LOOK LIKE CHARLIE CHAN

THEN HIS GIRLFRIEND WROTE HE WAS IN THE DUMPER VAN

THAT’S WHEN THE SITUATION BEGAN TO GET HIM DOWN

THAT WAS WHY HE RODE HIS JEEP INTO KABUL TOWN

 

HE WAS

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

 

DRINKING ILLEGAL HOOCH WITH THREE OTHER GUYS

HE LOST ALL REASON ANGRY TEARS FILLED UP HIS EYES

PICKING UP HIS M16 HE RAN AMOK IN THE NOONDAY SUN

SHOOTING SHOPPERS WILLY NILLY FIRING ON THE RUN

A SNIPER WITH A LAZER SIGHT AIMED A BEAD OF RED

SLOWLY PULLED THE TRIGGER AND SHOT HIM IN THE HEAD

 

HE WAS

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

AN ALL AMERICAN BOY

Copyright: Harry Rogers, Aberbanc, 28th February 2012

Scene Red rehearsal video “SON”

I wrote this after hearing that friends had lost a son in Afghanistan.  I could not really reflect their anguish at such a loss so I decided to write a poem based on feelings that I might feel in a similar situation.  The lyric follows and has become a song that Scene Red are rehearsing for the upcoming recording session.

SON

Son, as I stand here, all alone

Looking down, upon your stone

I remember passing out day

You’d grown so tall, and oh so brave

You looked so smart, so very proud

And the band was playing, very loud

I stood with your mother, by my side

Both of us swollen up with pride,

But a feeling niggled, deep inside

In my heart of hearts I knew someone had lied

I knew the donkeys had lied to the lions

In pursuit of new fires for their irons

 

Son, it is very hard to take,

Son, I know I made a big mistake,

Son, I knew the war was one big fake

Son, your mum and I ache and ache

We’ll never, ever, get the chance

To see you dance your wedding dance

Son, oh son, my lovely son

Son, oh son, my lovely son

 

When you were still a little boy

I brought you a bright shiny toy

I thought you’d have a lot of fun

Playing with your new toy gun

Now I know what I must do

This is the promise, I make to you

Whenever I meet fathers and sons

I’ll tell them all, smash up your guns

Fathers and sons – smash up your guns

Fathers and sons – smash up your guns

Do it now – do it – for my son!

Copyright: Harry Rogers – Aberbanc 3/3/2010

Is it just death from here on in?

A poem for dead pop stars;-

IS IT JUST DEATH FROM HERE ON IN?

THERE I WAS TRYING REALLY HARD
TO BELIEVE IN MONKEE DAYDREAMS
I HEARD THE NEWS THAT DAVY JONES
HAD DIED FROM A HEART ATTACK
I COULD HAVE SWORN I HEARD THE WHISTLE
OF CLARKSVILLE’S LAST TRAIN CALLING
PICKING UP ALL THOSE DEAD POP-STARS
ON THE NEVER ENDING JOURNEY BACK HOME
EVERY DAY THE LIST GETS LONGER
MORE STARS FALLING FROM THE SKY
THEY GET A LITTLE NOD ON FACEBOOK
LINKS TO FINE WRITTEN OBITUARIES
AND ANCIENT YOU-TUBE VIDEOS
REST IN PEACE AMY AND WHITNEY
AND DOBIE, JACKIE AND ETTA
LET MEMORIES JUST NOT FADE AWAY
WILL ALL OF US ALWAYS LOVE YOU?
IS IT JUST DEATH FROM HERE ON IN?

5th March 2012

The Modern Privateers – The Chilly Dogz

Another track from The Chilly Dogz second album with Marc Gordon on guitar and Roland Guitar Synth.  I wrote this after visiting a particular tower block in Swansea as part of my job as a social survey interviewer for ONS.  The dealers in the courtyard are really scary with their dogs just itching to get at you as you gingerly make your way to the lifts.  I was warned not to carry my laptop into the lift on my own on this estate, I did and luckily nothing happened but it is very representative of certain forgotten parts of the Coalition nightmare we all inhabit today.  Of course heroin has been rife in these areas for decades now….. as have the money lenders!

MODERN PRIVATEERS

This is the story of the Modern Privateers

Be careful ‘cos it just might, fill you up with tears

The Lift it is broken

We gotta use the stairs

This is because

No-one fuckin’ cares

(about) Who makes all the laws

Or who owns all the shares

(and why) Public it’s yours

And private it’s theirs

Living up the tower

For at least another year

Giving loads of money

To some goddam privateer

Outside in the courtyard

Stands an illustrated man

With his heavy chained bull-terrier

And his new black windowed van

In the flats on all the balconies

The casements have gone rusty

All the winter rain gets in

The furniture smells musty

Legions of people living here

Just can’t take it for much more

They’re reduced to spending all their time

Scrabbling around to score

The illustrated man has

A friend named Sharkskin Jack

Who will always loan you money

When you need to buy some smack

But, when you borrow money

Off of men like Sharkskin Jack

No matter how much you give to them

You’ll not finish paying back

They’ll string you out upon their rack

For years and years and years

Those two bastards and the rentier

Are the modern Privateers.

Copyright: Harry Rogers, 24/05/2010

Like Lazarus Rising

You know what, it gets on my nerve endings the way that racists assume that because you are the same colour as them then you automatically have the same obnoxious views as them.  I wrote this poem about it the other evening so here it is:-

LIKE LAZARUS RISING

LIKE LAZARUS RISING
SOMETHING DEEP AND DARK
REARS IT’S UGLY HEAD
CRAWLING ON IT’S BELLY
OUT INTO THE LIGHT OF DAY
FROM BENEATH THE GUTTER
SEEPING RACIST FILTH
AND SPREADING IT LIKE BUTTER
THERE IS A ROARING MURMUR
YOU CAN HEAR IT EVERYWHERE
THE SOUND IS SICKENING
LIKE A CANCER IN YOUR EAR
THEY’RE BLAMING STRANGERS
AS THEY’RE WHIPPING UP FEAR
THEY THINK IT’S OK TO TELL YOU
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT OTHER
AH BUT THEY LOOK CONFUSED
AS THEY SLOWLY DISCOVER
THAT IN THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK
IT’S THEM THAT ARE THE OTHER